The Blue Scarf
by Draco'sLoverr
Summary: John is alone and depressed. And this night is different. John fall asleep, drunk. Unable to hear that a long lost friend is walking up the stairs, returning to 221b.. John is so angry and hurt he can't think or realise what he is doing.


John Watson had given up. Completely given in to the depression, Sherlock had been gone for six months.  
He didn't eat, he didn't sleep, and when he drank, it was alcohol. He was but a shadow of himself, a ghost of whom he once was.  
He had stopped caring, nothing mattered anymore.  
He had had enough, enough of the silence. The flat was empty, and it had been for half a year, he would never get used to it.

He would never get used to no severed limbs in the fridge, no more shooting at the wall in the middle of the night. No more melodies coming from the living-room. No more crime scenes and therefore no more mind-blowing deductions.

He couldn't bear being alone another minute. He therefore proceeded to the kitchen. A white shirt was thrown over a kitchen chair. John stopped. The shirt had been hanging there for six months, but he had never paid attention to it.  
He stepped closer and picked it up. The last person who wore that shirt had killed himself, left John all alone, without anything to hold on to.  
John's sadness turned to anger.  
"Why?" he whispered and opened the fridge. The only thing left in it was a bottle of vodka.  
John grabbed the vodka bottle and went to his room, shutting the door behind him and shutting the world out.

And then he sobbed. And after a few hours he had fallen asleep with an empty bottle in hand, drunk. But in so deep and drunken sleep he didn't notice the creaking of the stairs.  
Someone had entered the flat; the steps were solid, not sneaking. The intruder knew the flat. And that someone was a man with surly black hair and piercing bright eyes.  
He looked around and it hit him that the flat was in the same condition as when he left it six months ago.  
He went into the kitchen and found his shirt. He changed and stopped.  
Heavy snoring made him aware once again that he was not alone, and it reassured him that John had been drinking heavily lately. He returned to the living-room and picked up his violin. Tried a tune and cringed.

John was still fast asleep. His swollen eyes were closed. He was dreaming.  
He stood on the ground, outside the hospital watching Sherlock on top of the roof.  
"Nobody would be that cleaver!" Sherlock said, and John could hear that his voice was about to crack.  
"Y-you could"  
"John, keep your eyes fixed on me... Please, will you do this for me?"  
"Do what?"  
"This phone call it's um... it's my note, that's what people do, don't they.. Leave a note?"  
"Leave a note, when?"  
"Goodbye John"  
"No!"

The scene shifted and John was back in his living-room watching Sherlock tuning his violin. He played a sad melody before turning around and John saw his damaged face, blood running down his neck.  
John woke in a pool of sweat.  
He looked at his bedroom door, sure of that he closed it before he fell asleep. He didn't think about that for a minute longer because something else caught his attention.  
Someone played violin. And he knew the melody too.. Sherlock's composition.. The melody he played when he needed to think. John rose from the bed; and stumbled into the nearest wall. The alcohol was still affecting his balance. He turned around and snuck into the living-room.  
He knew exactly what he was about to do when he saw the coat and the scarf.

"You!" He hissed and pointed at the shadow in front of the window.  
Sherlock Holmes turned around and faced him.  
"John? What are you still doing here?" He asked, stupid question, but if he told him he had been watching him, he would be in big trouble.  
"I fucking live here! What the hell are you doing here?"  
"I-"Sherlock was cut off before he even knew what he was saying  
"Bored of being dead? Huh? Answer me!" John had begun shouting now.  
"Sit down, John!" Sherlock hissed and pointed at the chair.

Sherlock stared at John. He hadn't bothered to shave in weeks, and quite frankly he smelled bad, and of course he was drunk and depressed. And Sherlock didn't know what to say, he was going to punch him in the face in two minutes no matter what he said or did.

"Oh so you're just going to sit there are you? Just staring at me, wondering what the hell happened?!"  
Sherlock didn't answer; the punch would come faster if he interrupted.  
"Do you think this is a fucking game, where you can disappear for months without even letting your best friend know? I grieved Sherlock! I mourned! I have been putting flowers and shed tears at your grave for months and-"John leapt forward and punched him right across the face. Twice.

John stopped right in the middle of the third punch. He pulled back and grabbed his coat.  
But he didn't get to where he intended. Sherlock pulled him backwards and sat him down in the chair again.  
"As you may have noticed before you cut me off, I was going to tell you something!" Sherlock hissed and turned his back, knowing John would listen to him.  
"I'm sorry for the pain I caused you, I'm sorry. Moriarty made you believe I was a fake, I had to go. Also if you had looked around you six months ago you would have seen the three snipers, aiming at you. I had to die for them to take their aim off you! But when you ran over to me after the fall you tripped and a little communication-device fell out of your ear. I put it on you to tell you the moment you thought you saw me dead, I was still alive and safe."

John sighed behind Sherlock's back.  
"And trying to make me believe you were a fake and dead was a better plan?"  
"I had to"  
"I thought you were dead, I've been thinking that for six months Sherlock! I said-" _I loved you.. _He didn't want to admit it, but he did. And if Sherlock was as good at deducing as John thought he was he had figured that out months ago. The second before Sherlock phone hit the ground John had told him he loved him. But Sherlock never realized because the next second he had jumped, and the second after that his blood was smeared out on the sidewalk.

"Finish your sentence"  
"What?"  
"You were talking and then you stopped, either you forgot or the rest of that sentence was to embarrassing or hard for you to say, obviously judging by your expression, the last one. Now, you were saying?"  
"I missed that" John admitted but still couldn't manage to look at him.  
"Finish" Sherlock didn't back down, and he already knew what John was going to say, he had heard it. And he had answered, whispered the words back.  
"I said…" John paused and looked at the bloody annoying douchebag in front of him "I said I loved you"  
"I know"  
"And what do you think you are doing now? Mocking?" John didn't let him answer; he grabbed him by the collar of his coat and slammed him towards the nearest wall.  
"No, I said I loved you too"

John's jaw dropped. He had no idea what to say.  
"Why can't you ever think of someone else besides yourself? You're narcissistic and an annoying asshole!"  
"John, shut up! You don't know what you are saying! Why do you think I'm here? Why do you think I dared to come here? I knew you would punch me thrice and not even accept my poor attempt of an apology!" Sherlock snapped.  
Their faces were one inch apart. John looked deep into Sherlock's eyes and as he had said he was sorry. His grey eyes were filled with an overwhelming sadness.  
John leaned in the last inch and kissed him. Gently, trying to explain how he felt with one single kiss.  
"Apology accepted" John whispered when Sherlock pulled away.  
"Promise me you won't fake your own death again? I now you're real now, you're not a fake, and you're mine" John said not letting Sherlock out of sight.  
"I promise" Sherlock said and kissed him again.

"Now go to bed, I'll be here"  
John smiled and went back into his bedroom to continue his sleep, knowing Sherlock was back, real and more caring than ever before. John smiled for the first time in six months when sweet melodic tones filled the air. He fell asleep to the sound of Sherlock playing violin.

When John woke the next morning and smelled the tea he nearly cried. It was true. Everything.  
He got up and went to the kitchen, seeing the shadow he smiled.  
"Sherloc-"  
It wasn't him.. Mrs. Hudson's warm smile met him  
"Now, John you do remember, Sherlock passed away six months ago? He's gone John" Mrs. Hudson put on a brave face and gave him a cup of tea before she headed downstairs to clean her flat. John just stared at her as she disappeared.  
He is not dead! He thought. He is out getting milk or something. He was still here! John ran into the living room. No!  
Sherlock's violin was on top of the shelf, not on the coffee table where he had left it last night.  
Maybe he just moved it. John took it down and looked at it. It hadn't been touched. It was full of dust, and no marks whatsoever. No fingerprints other than his own. That violin hadn't been touched in a very long time.  
No, not happening, not now! John paced around the flat trying to prove to himself that last night really happened, Sherlock had really been there! They had been kissing! He could still feel the numbness of his fist!

John sat down on the couch. It was dusty; no one had been sitting in it. John was sure he could hear his sanity fall apart. He was going mad; he had made up all of it to cope with reality, as usual.  
John wanted to cry, he wanted it to be true.  
He went into the kitchen and grabbed the last bottle of vodka from the fridge.  
If John had paid attention to one of the chairs he would have noticed that the white shirt was gone, but he didn't. John was hurt and confused.  
He closed the bedroom door behind him and sat down on the bed. Not knowing what to do anymore, he wanted Sherlock to come back.  
He needed him to come back. John looked around him, and then his eye caught something blue on his nightstand.  
A blue scarf, he almost choked on the vodka and bent over and grabbed it, a note fell out and under his bed.  
He threw himself down on the floor and reached for it.  
It was written with black ink, smudged out where Sherlock's fingers had hit the not completely dried ink..

_John  
I love you, and I wanted you to have this.. I promise I'll be back!  
Sherlock_

The ink got more smudged when John's salty tears hit the piece of paper.  
"You better be coming back"


End file.
